The Dreams in Which I'm Dying
by prosopopeya
Summary: HW Apocalypse!fic. He didn't stay long at the hospital after it started to go crazy. He tells himself that he doesn't miss them, but they dance behind his eyelids. He and Wilson though, they're alright because they're alive and at least they're not alone.


Title: _The Dreams in Which I'm Dying_  
Author: Shelli  
Pairing: House/Wilson  
Rating: PG-13, but do note the warning.  
Summary: _He didn't stay long at the hospital after it started to go crazy. He tells himself that he doesn't miss it, miss them, but they dance behind his eyelids. He and Wilson though, they're alright because they're alive and even if things are going a little crazy, they're not alone._  
Warnings: Dark. Depressing. ... You know, in the Bible, things that come in sets of three are emphasized.  
Disclaimer: Apocalypse!fic. Greatly inspired by a href"http://fatedaddiction. References to R.E.M. (naturally), _Night of the Living Dead_ because we know House likes zombies, and this poem by T.S. Eliot, a href"http://www.cs. Hollow Men /a . I'm excited to be posting this. I've been sitting on it for a while, debating whether or not to post, but I finally decided. It's quite different from anything I've written before--and by that, I mean I generally like to have some sort of happiness/hope at the end--and so I'm rather fond of it. 

**The Dreams in Which I'm Dying**

_And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad  
__The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had  
_"_Mad World" – Gary Jules's cover_

i.

He hates that they follow him when he shuts his eyes. Ghosts of ghosts dance in his mind when he sleeps. He hates it because when did he start caring about them anyway? He drags a hand over his face, hoping to pull the memory as he sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes.

The building is unfamiliar and cold and ugly but safe. There're footsteps running by outside and a siren in the distance but at least there aren't people screaming in the hallways. And Wilson's here, in the bathroom, in front of the mirror. There's no reason to be there because they aren't going anywhere—they've even given up on going to the grocery store every week because neither one is eating as much (and they don't look each other in the eye)— but the noise is familiar at least and he smiles, in spite of himself and this day and the news reports on the TV.

He slings himself out of bed and listens to the sound of Wilson humming to himself, shooting a glare in the direction of the bathroom and snatching up his iPod. (He insisted they take a CD player before they were all gone. A going out of business sale, he'd said. Once in a lifetime opportunity. The sarcasm was too deep for Wilson and he helped House take it out of the broken doorway.) He puts on R.E.M. and listens to the snort in the bathroom. To his dismay he gets to listen to the voice belt out the words next as he's stumbling to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. He wonders how much longer the power will last.

But he tries to avoid thoughts like that, takes out a beer because morning and night run together and the world is getting smaller, so he should be able to say what time happy hour is. And his vote is for whenever the hell you want it to be. (Because what else is there to do now?)

He sinks onto the couch, picks up the remote. There's nothing on except the news and he's surprised it's lasted this long, but they have and he suppresses the urge to be thankful. It's the end of the world as we know it—and he isn't about to turn into a Hallmark commercial over it. Feeling fine is enough for him and he takes a long sip of beer, points out that the anchorwoman's roots are starting to show when Wilson steps into the room and sits on the couch beside him. Their feet are on the coffee table and the shirts they're wearing are from the day before yesterday, but they're next to each other on the sofa and he thinks Wilson's voice is at least better than this woman's.

Wilson asks if there are other stations as he adjusts a pillow under his arm. His eyes are on him then and Wilson's reaching to take House's beer but he's holding it out with his other arm and ignoring the withering glare, tossing the remote into Wilson's lap.

He taps his foot in time to the song that's filling the room, flooding over the sounds of "body count" and "stay inside" and "remain calm." Wilson's rolling his eyes as he gets up, goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a Pop Tart in his hand, and House snickers, shakes his head.

Wilson points out that he isn't the one listening to i this /i cheesy song as he sits back down, looks over at House. He's wondering why Wilson's grinning like that but then he realizes he is too, and it's a strange moment but fuck, no one's here to see anyway. They share a chuckle and a joke and they turn back to watch the newscaster with R.E.M. providing a musical backdrop to her report.

ii.

It's a week later and there's no newscaster anymore, just a continuous scroll of audio. There's been a van from the health department patrolling the streets under the guise of finding survivors but he's only noticed the absence of bodies from the street and a package of food by his door. When he shuts his eyes now, they don't haunt his vision anymore. The sounds of the hospital don't ring in his ears and so he listens to music less because there's nothing to drown out now except the sounds of life.

They share a bed now because they need the heat, they say. He smells like Wilson when he wakes up, and he stares at the ceiling for a long time before getting up—partly because he's out of Vicodin, and they could go to the hospital to get some but neither really feels like mentioning the place out loud. A silent agreement but a solid one and they don't need to speak aloud to say things, anyway.

So when Wilson stands in the doorway to the bedroom and leans against the frame and watches him for minutes at a time, he doesn't have to ask him what he wants to say. There's nothing to say anymore, anyway. He doesn't primp in the bathroom anymore. And he doesn't tell him that he misses waking up to the noise of the blow dryer, just a little. Just a little, but enough.

They pass back and forth the food they went out for the other day. The package of food is still sitting by the door in its pristine white container. There are no sounds outside anymore. And he thinks that at least it isn't like i _Night of the Living Dead /i _because then they really would be fucked.

He tells Wilson as much as they watch it on the TV. (They had gotten tired of the audio scroll, strolled through the video store. The stack of zombie movies was his choice. And Wilson gave his head a shake, a smile ghosting his face. There was a comment about cynicism and a chuckle. They ran across a body the health department had missed in a back aisle. They left quietly.)

But now they're laughing again because they'd found whiskey in the back of the grocery store that hadn't been raided, and it feels good to have it burn their throats. There's a pleasant buzzing in his head and he's leaning against Wilson because he's warm and comfortable. Wilson brings his hand up to punctuate his point in their half-drunken conversation and it falls against House's good leg and they leave it there.

He shuts his eyes and leans his head back. There're three Vicodin running in his bloodstream and an empty shelf in the pharmacy of the grocery store. He feels numb but at least this is normalcy. They stop talking because after a while there isn't anything new to say and thoughts become a sort of sustenance. Their eyes follow the movie, Barbara's screams filling the room as her zombie brother reaches for her.

He isn't sure when it is exactly that the line of friendship is crossed. All he knows is that it has been and it feels fucking good (and it's been a long time since anything felt good). It was quiet, whenever it happened. Casual. They don't need fireworks or a swell of music. They just need a room and the feel of the other's skin and their breath as it skips along their cheeks.

So as far as he knows, they were staring at the TV screen and then their mouths were pressing against the other. There's no heat in this because there's enough body heat between them to last at least for the night. This is quiet and it's slow and it's comfort. Their arms fall across their bodies and he thinks that he hasn't made out on a couch since high school. But Wilson is becoming Jimmy and his lips are strong against his.

As far as he knows, this is what he needs.

iii.

He laughs when he wakes up coughing.

He knows he shouldn't because Jimmy is on the pillow beside him and it isn't funny, not really, not for Jimmy. But he laughs because it's fucking hilarious to him. He slides an arm under his pillow and holds back a sneeze and shuts his eyes. Jimmy moves against him and House slides an arm along his waist, pressing him firmly to him. He says it's the delirium that comes with this. (But that takes a few days and really, he wants something to tether him down.)

He was right. Jimmy narrows his eyes and brings him soup in a cup and gets mad when House points out the futility. They don't speak for a lot of the day. He stares out the window. Jimmy stares at the floor.

He comes back into the bedroom at sunset and crawls in next to House, and their bodies collide and they don't speak because there are more important things to be doing. Their hands trace patterns and their mouths dance over skin and this is life, at any rate. At least he had life. But he is too far in the present to slip into the past tense, so he slides into Jimmy and buries himself in the sound of his cries.

iv.

It isn't as funny when he wakes up to see the circles under Jimmy's eyes.

He wonders if he looks as hollowed out. He asks Jimmy and he doesn't answer, just turns his head. It's his turn to stare at the ceiling. House doesn't mind. He'd rather watch his profile if only because it's effort to turn his head and he doesn't want to remind himself of just how much.

Jimmy's the one who's got his arm curled over House's stomach when he wakes up. He hadn't realized he'd dozed off, but that's common now. He coughs, wipes his hand against the side of the bed. He shuts his eyes because the room's spinning now and Jimmy's arm is warm and comfortable against his skin. He doesn't feel Jimmy's eyes open against his cough.

v.

"Greg."

It's soft, insistent. His eyes open slowly and the world is blurry but he thinks he can make out the face hovering over him. There's a kiss against his lips and he knows the taste, at least. He isn't sure because sounds distort and swirl but he thinks he's being told to take something. There's something cool and smooth against his lips now. He opens his mouth, swallows. Swallows again. His forehead creases and his mind is slow to work and his body is hot but this doesn't seem right. He remembers swallowing these, but he's swallowed more than twice—hasn't he? He opens his mouth and starts to work his tongue but he's shushed with a finger over his mouth and a hand in his hair.

And there's the warmth by him in the bed, and he turns his eyes, sees the figure lying down to face him, pulling the covers over both of them. He narrows his eyes and tries to think and comes up with a word but everything's clouding.

"Jimmy."

There's a sob that really is just a cough and then the arm is tightening around his chest.

And it isn't with a bang but with a whimper.


End file.
